


a scarf, a vision, a tear

by diffideer



Category: Danger | Franck Rivoire (Musician) RPF, Electronic Dance Music RPF, SebastiAn (French Musician) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crying, M/M, Multiverse, Parallel Universes, Scarves, Tears, Visions, also i'm not exactly a professional at this, being francku is suffering, edit: decided to remove that tag since i felt it didn't really describe what franck went thru, everyone is a victim of the world they live in, franck is no exception, how do I tag things, hypothetical situations, i see no end to the pain, i think???, interaction between universes, it was anything but that, just letting you know, lots of them (i may have lied in the title), partially non canon compliant, sorry if i made anyone uncomfy w/ that tag ;;, sorta - Freeform, there's something else i'd like to tag but it's a complete spoiler lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 18:20:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diffideer/pseuds/diffideer
Summary: who knew something as simple as a cold weather garment could trigger lingering interuniversal sentiments within franck[inspired by/based on the "liberté" universe of the akchotesuggestion series created by magistralucis on tumblr. includes a shameless small crossover with my own AU.]





	a scarf, a vision, a tear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magistralucis (Solitary_Shadow)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/gifts).

> during the "vision" segment, the "real" franck is referred to with "he/him", and lib franck is referred to with "they/them", so as to avoid confusion.
> 
> also some quick info about the au where the "real" franck comes from:  
\- it's a cute little s̶e̶l̶f̶ ̶i̶n̶d̶u̶l̶g̶e̶n̶t̶ slice of life au with danger and the kid (who has been adopted & named "ren" (蓮))  
\- it's kinda like 19 au except the kid is "human" and the taiko drummers are living elsewhere  
\- franck is on relatively good terms with sebastian, vincent, and gesa. he's somewhat familiar with louis and a few certain ed bangers, but they don't interact much

“_Papa_, I'm all set!”  
  
At the sound of Ren's voice, Franck glances up from his phone and sees his son standing next to the front door, prepared for another day of school.  
  
It's late September, and although the heat of the summer can still be felt here and there, the autumn chill has just set in, and Ren has dressed accordingly. He's clad in a powder white sweater, a black pleated skirt that ends just above his knees, a pair of black trouser socks, and a gently loved pair of brown penny loafers. A jet black messenger bag slung over his shoulder completes the look.

Franck can't help but chuckle a bit. “Where's your toast?” he asks him, a joking smile on his face.  
Ren sighs, unamused. “You know I already had breakfast,” he replies, crossing his arms. “And we should leave before the traffic gets worse.”  
The weather forecast on Franck's phone suddenly catches his attention. “Ahh, but before that—Danger told me they knitted a little something for you the other night. It's going to be a bit brisk later on, so...”

Ren cocks an eyebrow. “They _knitted_ me something?”

“Yeah...” Franck disappears into his bedroom and returns holding a finely knitted red and black scarf with short tassels.

“A scarf?”

Franck nods, unfolding it slightly. “It surprised me that they'd put together something of this quality, but with the colder months approaching, it makes sense for them to have crafted you this...”

Ren's eyes widen in curiosity, and he steps forward to inspect the fabric—thick, soft, high quality wool. He's actually amazed by it—he was expecting one of those scratchy scarves a sentimental grandma would knit her grandchild. Well, he would've accepted it anyway. It's made with his parent's love, after all.

“Well? Go ahead and try it on.”  
“Hmm, I don't know about the color choice...” Ren slides off his bag and takes the scarf in his hands, fixing it around his neck. When he's done he looks to his father for approval.  
“Does it look ok?” he asks, slipping his bag back onto his shoulder, adjusting the strap so that it'll fit snugly under the garment.  
“You look great!” Franck replies, and he means it. “The stripes contrast well with the white of your sweater. Danger definitely knew what they were doing. Here, I'll take a picture to show you.”

Ren leans a little to the side and rests his right hand on his bag strap. Franck readies his phone and paints an instant composition of a young schoolboy prepared to take on the day.  
Before he shows it to his son, Franck studies the image for a bit. He sees a 12 year old boy with blonde locks and dark blue eyes looking passively back at him, dressed modestly in a schoolgirl's clothes and with an eye catching red and black scarf elegantly wrapped around his neck.

The scarf suddenly has his attention hostage.

And then the boy disappears.

  
In his place is Franck. Or at least, somebody who looks uncannily like him.

They're wearing the same clothes as Ren, the only difference being their countenance.  
Their expression is one of... pensiveness. Of introspection. Of wistfulness, of regret, of sorrow and longing. Perhaps even more.

Franck is taken aback, wondering how on earth this strange doppelganger got onto his phone screen and kicked Ren out of the picture.  
Before he can say anything, however, he makes the mistake of truly gazing into his lookalike's eyes.

And then he sees. Hears. _Feels._

**🌹**

He sees France, present day, same as it ever was and yet so _different_. He sees himself working as a journalist at a newspaper company. Gesaffelstein (“huh? what's he doing here?”) oversees their work.  
  
A rose quietly blooms, and the two of them fall in love. Kiss, share many intimate moments together.  
  
Then the petals wilt and fall off, leaving nothing behind save for a briary stem.  
  
Mike's sweet words and soft caresses morph into cold, impersonal orders, before giving way to harsh curses and sharp blows on their skin. Their arms and neck covered in bruises and cuts, they run. Flee for their life, heart submerged in fear and guilt. Gesa is incarcerated in his own residence, never to see the streets of Paris ever again. They now live with the relief that he can never abuse them a second time, but the thorns are still embedded in their heart...

The scene changes. Franck is now looking at a grand, magnificent estate, fit for an emperor. It's nothing like he's seen before, and yet it feels otherwise. Feels as if he _lives_ here.

An assortment of faces pass by him, one by one.

Sebastian.

He's wearing a black vintage emperor's outfit. It's very elegant too, the accoutrements and the garment itself lending a dignified, awe-inspiring aura to his exquisitely carved visage. His deep blue eyes shine with pride and love for his country, for his citizens, for his family. A proud smile on his lips, he raises two fingers to bless his people. Two silver rings gleam in the sunlight.

_“Glory to the new France.”  
_Those words bring another familiar face into view.

Vincent.

Vincent... _terrifies_ Franck. It must be the blood red general's outfit he's wearing, the sword he has so dutifully strapped onto his hip, or the cold, ruthless expression on his face. They know of his fearsome reputation, a history just as bloody as Sebastian's. They're painfully aware of his passionate enmity towards them. There is love in his heart, but whatever is left of it is tightly sealed away.  
Franck feels like he's looking at someone else, a stranger who's just wearing Vincent's skin.

Somehow, they know he wasn't always like this. They don't know the exact details, but from what they've been told, leading the revolution must have been immensely traumatic, especially for him and Sebastian. Just for a split second, they feel for him...  
A storm quietly brews inside Vincent's steely blue eyes, a stark contrast to Sebastian's sunny skies. His voice is orotund and stoic as he salutes to nobody in particular, the motion swift and precise.

_“Glory to Sebastian, all hail.”_

The next few faces are somewhat familiar, but Franck doesn't know them as well as the first two. Well, as far as his “real” self is concerned. Yet their sentiments towards each and every one of them run clear through his heart...

Gaspard Augé and Xavier de Rosnay. Longtime trusted companions of the President and his Captain, and supposedly the same for Franck. They watch the two of them kiss and exchange sweet nothings from afar, and cannot help but feel a twinge of envy. Envy that the two of them are able to love each other without fear of being torn apart by their superiors' meddling hands...  
  
Sonny Moore. Franck is certainly surprised to see him here. He is Sebastian's heir, set to take up the throne when the latter inevitably passes. He seems innocuous enough, enough for them to call him a trusted friend. The “trusted” part is somewhat debatable.

Pedro Winter. Franck has to ask what a sweet, honest man like Pierre is doing in this mess.

Quentin Dupieux. Franck doesn't dwell much on this one. (_Probably with good reason..._)

David Guetta. (Okay, what the fuck are these random-yet-somehow-vaguely-connected-artists doing here?)  
Franck's feelings towards him are... somewhat complicated. At times, they were suspicious of him like they were with just about everyone else. Sometimes they feared him reaching into their heart and plucking out the secrets they could never dare impart to anyone. But now, as they part ways in the parking lot, Franck wistfully wishes they could spend just a little more time together.

Louis Rogé. An old friend of Franck's and a former friend of Gesa's. He lives a quiet, relatively solitary life in Belgium. Franck wishes they could tell him more about their everyday life in the new France, but they can't bear the thought of losing a dear friend to the chaos.

_Especially not..._

Confused tears spill forth from Franck's eyes. He cannot understand why looking at this man's face hurts so much, especially when the only time he's ever looked at him was on a screen. He himself has never interacted with the great Sir Bob Cornelius Rifo (and it's probably for the best; he respects the guy but his aura is just a _little_ too intense for him), much less seen his full face, so it's a mystery as to why this Italian stranger is making his (their?) heart throb with yearning and adoration and sorrow.

They want to tell him everything, to pour all of their tears and fears out in front of him. They (<strike>perhaps</strike> selfishly) want him to carry them out of the New France, away from Sebastian and Vincent and Gesa and everything and everyone that had put them through so much pain.  
But deep down they know it isn't possible. Franck cares too damn much about Bob, but they also care too damn much about Sebastian and David and everyone else whom they didn't want to see die a horrible death, aka the very people who were keeping them here. Franck couldn't win no matter what they did.  
  
Against his own accord, Franck's left arm rises towards Bob, and Franck, still somewhat confused but sympathizing with the other Franck's feelings, lets his (their?) hand reach out towards his face. He watches, his own heart swelling with a strange, secondhand ache as Bob (not!Bob?) and his other self tenderly caress each others' faces, one letting the other wipe away their tears.  
  
It reminds him of being with his own Danger. Their body always feels like home; their arms are his shelter. As long as they're together, Franck feels like nothing can hurt him. It's the same between these two; alas, the feeling would always be swallowed up by the knowledge that, eventually, neither of them would be safe.

Franck, as bewildered and frightened as he is by this sudden experience, has to sympathize with his intriguing doppelganger. If he had to deal with having his beloved being put in harm's way because of personal entanglement with the government, he would cry the very same way, if not more.

Franck shrieks as Bob is abruptly pulled away from them by an unseen force, their lips having been mere nanoseconds apart the moment before. They lunge after him, only to grab at the cold, empty air.

  
They are in the palace gardens now. In their lover's place is Sebastian, sitting motionlessly among the roses.

The great and generous Monsieur le President has fallen to his knees, resplendent ebony garb replaced with the Captain's crimson regalia. His sacred lips are moist with blood (_his own or another's?_), his sapphire eyes wet with remorse as they contemplate heaven (_or hell? Would God ever find it in His heart to forgive a creature such as him?_). His gloved hands are pressed steadfastly in prayer, silently pleading his Creator for mercy. Hanging around his hands is a peculiar small golden locket with a blue gem in the middle. Franck vaguely wonders about its owner; moreover, whose picture is inside...

Sebastian calmly raises his head, and his eyes meet Franck's. Dread floods into their being, realizing they cannot escape this situation. They never can, having cursed themselves the very day they wended their way into the affairs of the palace. Franck Rivoire is just another pawn in this wicked game with the power to take out the king if their moves are smartly planned out.

This is not what they had planned.

Seb smiles, the motion plaintive and pitiful.

_“Oh, Franck... can you ever forgive me? For everything I've done to you?”_

Franck's throat tightens, and the air is silent for a precious moment as they attempt to form a reply, their heart and mind racing.

They exhale, the sound simultaneous with the breeze gently tossing the roses in their hedges.

_“If I were your Creator, then I suppose I could. But I am not God...”_

The raven-haired man closes his eyes, pained smile still on his tainted lips.

_“Then I suppose it is between me and Him.”_ His eyes reflect the dismal evening sky above, resolve now coexistent with his agony.

_“Come, Franck. Kiss me, so that I may be sent back up to the Father.”_

Voicelessly, Franck screams, silently thrashing against the puppet strings of fate. They know what's coming next, know what they're going to do by kneeling in front of Sebastian and embracing him. He is Jesus Christ and they are Judas Iscariot, possessed by no evil but acting on their own accord. _(Or are they? God, so many questions they're afraid of finding the answers to.)_  
  
Franck likes to think they're strong for having lived through the hell that were the previous years of their life. For having learned from the many mistakes they made.  
But in this very moment, they are nothing but weak. Weak as they sink down to their knees in front of the man they fear and revere and _love_, look him straight in the eyes, tenderly caress his adored visage, and join their mouths together.  
  
The kiss is long and bittersweet, as Franck had always expected it to be, and although a metallic taste trickles into their mouth, they pay it no heed. They brush their fingers against Sebastian's cheeks, and he does the same, his gloved fingers meeting Franck's face. Acting upon their hearts' desire, they pull each other closer, arms wrapped protectively around the other as if to shield each other from the cruelty of the world, of friends and of foes. They might be vastly different in terms of who they are and where they came from, but in this moment, they are just two human beings on this planet. Two human beings with the same hopes and fears, two human beings suffering from the same pain. At least they have that to share.  
  
They finally break apart, but Franck dares not open their eyes. They are afraid of what will come next. They always have been.

Still holding onto them, foreheads touching, Seb's voice rings clear through their head.

_“I'm so sorry, Franck. How I wish things were different. How I wish I could be by your side without fear...”_

He presses a soft kiss to Franck's forehead, his hands trembling on their shoulders.

_“I can only pray that God will reunite us someday. Please... carry on that prayer for me. For _us_.”_

His words reverberate through their very being.

_“Farewell, my dearest Franck. _I love you_.”_

Their lips meet one final time, and Sebastian's hands fall away.

His lips suddenly become cold.

Franck softly gasps at the unexpected temperature drop, breaking the kiss. Heart now frozen with fear, they gingerly force themselves to bear witness to what is left of their beloved Sebastian.

The sight of his lifeless, decapitated head should make them scream and gag in shock and distress. But his heavenly countenance is clean and full of color and serene, his hair neatly combed like it always was, eyes closed as if he was slumbering peacefully.  
It is only the blood on their own hands and clothes and mouth that chills them.

Franck can only cradle him in their arms and sob quietly. They shut their eyes and let their heart flow out in rivers as they hug Sebastian tightly to their chest, defenseless against the encroaching darkness threatening to swallow them both.  
But they don't care. Nothing matters anymore, now that everything they knew and loved has been destroyed, now that they have nobody else to protect...

A anguished wail sounds out before being devoured by the void.

Nothing is left...

🥀

"...Franck? _Franck_!"

Ren's worried voice yanks him out of the darkness and back into the light of his home, causing Franck to yelp and drop his phone in reflex. Thankfully he'd safeguarded it against shock and screen cracks. Ren quickly picks it up while Franck blinks, slowly returning to reality.

“_Papa_!” The blonde hugs their father tightly, holding onto him with the same intensity the other Franck had with Sebastian's head. Franck cautiously looks down at his son, subconsciously making sure it's not an older man's head he's reassuringly patting.

Ren's anxious eyes meet his parent's. They remind him of a cloudy late evening sky, like the one hanging over the palace gardens...

“You had me worried, Franck! Your face became all blank and stuff, and I couldn't get you to respond, even when I tried gently tapping you on your arms and hands...”

Franck's brows furrow in worry and regret, and he kneels down and hugs his son comfortingly.

“Oh, Rennie, I'm so sorry I scared you. I didn't expect to suddenly space out like that. I don't know what happened. But thank you for being patient, and for waking me up...” (He makes a note in the back of his mind to teach him what to do in situations like these, should it ever happen again...)

Ren pulls away slightly from the hug, gently tugging on the back of their father's jacket for comfort. “What did you... what did you see? Was it like a nightmare?”

Franck pauses. He would tell Ren what he saw, but it was all too complex for a 12 year old to even process. Besides, he wouldn't be able to keep his cheeks dry...

Instead, he settles for a meager truth.

“I... I can't remember most of it... All I know is I felt really sad...”

“Sad?”

“Yeah...”

Franck suddenly remembers it's a school day and Ren has class in 30 minutes. He shakes his head, standing up and quickly wiping away a stray tear. “B-but none of it's important. We gotta get you to school before the traffic slows us down.” He remembers he dropped something. “Ah... my phone?”

Ren glances at the screen, briefly studying his image, and hands it back to him. “Um, Franck?”

“Yes, Ren?” he asks, grabbing his keys.

“I... I think I'll just wear my old gray scarf for now.”

“Huh? But don't you like Danger's scarf?”

“Yeah, I do, but...” Ren carefully removes the garment and offers it back to Franck. “No offense to them or anything, but... I think this thing is cursed,” they chuckle nervously. “If it could make you unresponsive like that for almost two minutes, then it could probably do worse to other people." They pause briefly, then shudder. "Or me. I want my scarf to at least bring good luck wherever I go.”  
A thought passes by their eyes, and they place it in his hands like a gift. “I think... _you_ should have it, Franck. If anything... Danger made this for you.”  
  
Almost hesitatingly – just almost – Franck takes it and delicately wraps it around himself. He doesn't bother to check how he looks. He _shouldn't_, lest he break down in tears or something.

Ren smiles gently up at him, face so sweet and innocent and blissfully unaware of things like traumatizing pasts and and bloody revolutions and broken bonds and the feeling of knowing that no matter what you do life has a way of tearing the very people you love away from you.

“You look great!” they echo him. Franck hopes so. He can't bear to see himself right now...

“Sure do,” he replies as nonchalantly as he can manage. Thankfully, Ren doesn't notice the strain in his voice. “Go get your scarf, and we'll head out.”

“Okay, _papa_...”

  
Franck and Ren make it to the school just on time. He hugs them before they join the ranks of children heading off to a regular day of classes, and they wave back to him before they turn and disappear into the school grounds.  
  
He drives back home through the usual streets, his scarf flying behind him. Some people notice, and their gazes follow him as he speeds by on his sports bike. “What a lovely scarf,” they murmur. “Someone must have knitted it for him...”

He arrives at his apartment, and the first thing he does is look himself in the full body mirror in his bedroom. Ren was right—the red and black stripes perfectly complement the dark colors he's wearing, even more so than Ren's own outfit.

He's tempted to trade his jeans for a pleated skirt, just to compare himself with _them_, but decides against it. Seeing the resemblance with his own eyes would kill him.

Franck makes his way to his bed and sits down next to the night stand, doffing the scarf as if it were a failed noose around his neck. His gaze falls to his lap as he numbly recollects everything he saw earlier that morning.

He remembers the cicatrices Gesa left on Franck's mind, and how his actions would forever mark their soul.

He remembers the fear and confusion Franck felt, along with just about every negative thought and emotion they had.

He remembers the profound love they had for Bob, and all the tears they cried for him.

He remembers the smiles and good intentions of their friends, and how much Franck wished, hoped, and prayed they all would make it out alive.

He remembers Sebastian and the sorrow in his smile, how the despair welled forth from his deep blue eyes, how gently his beautiful warm lips moved against theirs, how his voice filled them as he bid farewell, how his—

  
Franck's vision blurs over and his scarf is christened with his lacrima as he buries his face into the wool, Sebastian's beloved image overflowing in his mind as he cries out for him over and over like a scared child.

"Sebastian... Sebastian... I'm so sorry... Sebastian... _Sebastian!_"

(He knows it isn't _his_ fault, but that Franck Rivoire is still Franck Rivoire and their pain has become his pain, if only for a little while.)

Was any of it real? Was it all just a dream? It all felt so surreal, and yet, it somehow all made sense. Maybe in some other pocket of the universe, it could have happened. It _had_ to, considering how terrifyingly palpable his emotions were, and _are._

Finally letting fear, confusion, and distress flow freely through him, he falls back onto the bed, clutching the scarf like a lifeline as he continues to helplessly weep until weariness overtakes him.

Franck's breathing gradually steadies, and the well of tears gently runs dry as he lapses into sleep...

He finds himself in an atelier, somewhere in the New France. _Their_ atelier.

He sees them sitting at their easel, wistfully trying to complete an oil painting of Sebastian. They're wearing the scarf again, perhaps as a way of mourning.

_“Franck.”_ It feels weird saying his own name. Like he's calling for someone completely different and yet for himself at the same time.

They look up, and the paintbrush falls from their fingers.

His own face is suddenly in front of him.

For a moment, the two Francks stare at each other motionlessly, their eyes boring into each other. Neither of them speak.

They don't need to.

Franck collapses into his arms, their tears soaking his scarf and with sobs wracking their frame. Franck holds onto them tightly, wrapping himself around as much of them as he can.

Together they cry— one being a victim of the cruel reality they lived in, and the other, a helpless bystander who can only watch from the other side of the glass.

_“I'm sorry,”_ Franck whispers, keeping them safe in his embrace as their emotions bleed into him once more. It's all he can do. Ultimately, even as their existence spans countless universes, he isn't the author of their story.

All he can do is hope their story has a happy ending...

**Author's Note:**

> hi kim!! thank you for reading this to the end, i really hope you enjoyed! apologies if some sentences read weirdly, i'm not as confident in my english as i was a few years ago. also i'm sorry if there are some inconsistencies, my knowledge of lib is not as complete as i thought it was orz. nevertheless, i hope my writing is comfortable enough! ^^'
> 
> i wrote this fic as a tribute of sorts to liberté, and by extension aksug. i noticed enthusiasm in aksug was somewhat waning recently, and i thought i'd give you a little token of appreciation! we're all grateful for the massive love you put into this story, and we want to let you know said love is definitely not one sided. the pain you put us through / the smiles you bring to our faces with every update is totally worth it :'D
> 
> so... thank you, kim. thank you for creating such a wonderful universe-no, _multi_verse- for us to cherish and enjoy.
> 
> i sure do hope i'm not giving you any funny ideas with this... unless......... ahahaha.......
> 
> anyways, i hope you have a lovely day/night! ciao! (and apologies for the plethora of tags)
> 
> ❤️


End file.
